“The thing I feel most disposed to say, Miss Stanley,” he began at last, “is that this is very sudden. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. This happened after he ate. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Mr. And I think I will indeed blow off your imbecile head. " "Never fear," replied the lady.
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